


Distraction

by islandwritergirl93



Category: Defending Jacob - William Landay
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Rough Sex, Sex, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandwritergirl93/pseuds/islandwritergirl93
Summary: Andy’s life is a mess because of the trial and you’ve become the perfect distraction.
Relationships: Andy Barber/Reader, Andy Barber/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 50





	Distraction

**__ **

**_~_ **

Murder cases are messy.

In suburban cities like Newton, Massachusetts they leave behind a stench. A thick cloud of fear and uncertainty that shakes the small, innocent metropolitan to its core. The way they threaten a neighborhood’s sense of safety. The way they make it beg for mercy, make the people pray for a time where things would just go back to normal.

But normalcy becomes a thing of the past. With murder cases, there’s only the before, and the after.

You’re thinking this as you pull into the driveway of your home, the shadows of the late hour dancing around the headlights of your car as you shut the engine. It’s eerily quiet, the ghosts of before fighting for life but the after is too loud. On the street, houses sit in a winding curve stretching all the way to a dead end, the dense woods going on for miles in the cold darkness.

You shouldn’t be coming home so late. But this is what murder cases do. They take up your time, make you spend long hours hunched over a computer and cheap takeout, fighting a war with a story that just won’t seem to piece itself together no matter how hard you try. No matter the number of coffees or bathroom breaks or power naps on the couch in the office break room.

Being a journalist during a murder trial this prominent means your time isn’t your own. Your brain is a constant circus of questions - did he do it? Does he regret it? Will he go to jail? Will he be exonerated? How does he feel? How does his mother feel?

How does his _father_ feel?

The last question stumps you, makes you pause on the stone walkway to your porch because, shamefully, you know the answer to it. You shouldn’t, but you do.

In that moment his face pops into your brain, images of the last time you saw him – above you, body thrusting, face contorted in pleasure – twisting across your mind like a film reel.

You never thought you’d be in this kind of predicament. Never thought you’d give into those kinds of desires, especially during a time as fragile as this.

But isn’t that what fragility needs? Something to keep it together? To keep it distracted from its strengthless and brittle existence? And you are, of course, the perfect distraction…

You sigh, shoulders heavy with the weight of the day, the last few weeks.

This is what murder cases do. They leave you tired, feet dragging up the stairs of your porch, eyes half-lidded, oblivious to bodies lurking in the shadows…

“You’re home late.”

The sound of his voice coming through the dark makes you stop short.

“Andy,” you gasp, hand flying to your racing heart. He stands in the corner, the outline of him slowly coming through the more your eyes adjust and as it does you wonder why the hell you didn’t remember to leave the damn porch light on. “What are you doing here?”

You barely see him shrug, hardly see him take a step towards you. “Needed to see you.”

The tension in his voice is a giveaway to the turmoil that’s no doubt swimming around inside of him. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve been the Andy Barber you knew before - the sharp, handsome Assistant District Attorney, the hard worker with a stellar reputation, with a beautiful wife and a quiet son. The man with scorching blue eyes, who wore pressed suits and gave you the kind of intel only a man like him can give. The kind of intel most journalists working for the story-starved papers of Newton desperately wanted to have access to.

But normal doesn’t exists anymore. He’s the Andy you know after – the one whose son is on trial for the murder of a 14-year-old boy, the former ADA with a broken family, an even shattered marriage, whose life has become a window shop display because of the media frenzy surrounding the case.

No longer the man you’d once secretly admired.

Now the man you’d gone against your better judgement and slept with. Because he needed someone. Because he needed to be distracted from the ruins that was now his daily life.

And you are, of course, the perfect distraction…

“I- I really should get some sleep,” you tell him. Pulling out your keys, you unlock the door, the click like a loud bang in the night’s quietness. “It’s been a long day.”

“I just want to talk.”

You pause, front door wide enough to reveal the short foyer. The last few times he’d wanted to ‘talk’, too.

He can feel you hesitating, sees your pause as incoming no. “Please,” he whispers.

He sounds desperate, almost tortured, the word falling from his mouth in a rough rumble of letters. And you can’t help it, can’t ignore the feeling of pity that worms its way through your chest. In your mind, you think of the Andy you knew before, the one who was always so poised, now crumbling like dry sand on your porch.

“Okay,” you nod, holding the door open for him. He slips past you, tall form hulking in the foyer as you shut the door, lock it, flip on the lights.

He’s a sight of disheveled hair, rough, unkept beard and wrinkled shirt, jeans worn and unwashed, hoodie hanging on his weary frame. He looks more like a kid than a man, icy blue eyes harboring a pain that no doubt has spread its way across his body, mentally and physically exhausting him.

The first time you met him, there’d been…something. You weren’t sure what it was – maybe a friendliness, a warmness that most journalists didn’t always receive from people of such high positions. He was professional, but still, there was something about the way he treated you, how he spoke to you, the intel he gave you and no one else. Even your closest colleagues saw it, teased you about it but you never thought twice. He was who he was after, all. He was the ADA. He had a wife. He had a son. 

That was before, though, when everything was normal, and Newton was still an ordinary suburban city where 14-year-old boys weren’t murdered in the park.

Now they were, and things were messy.

“How are you?” you ask carefully, although it’s a shitty question because you already know the answer. This case is your story, after all. And Andy’s been in your bed long enough for you know the demons he’s facing.

“I feel like shit,” he mumbles, eyes taking you in.

In that moment, you can hear the stadium in his brain, the voices of everyone around town echoing, judging. Including his own. Laurie’s too.

“How’s…everything?” Also another shitty question. You know the answer to that one, too.

“Messy.”

His one word, no doubt, goes straight across the board: the trial is messy, his life his messy, his practically non-existent marriage is messy.

You don’t know what to say, except, “I’m sorry.”

Andy only nods, eyes taking in every inch of your form. He looks like a hollow shell, a hazy resemblance to the Andy before. You miss that Andy. Deep down, you think he’s still there, buried beneath the rubble, beneath the mess.

“How’s the story coming?” he asks, interrupting the sounds of the somewhat quiet house: the ticking clock on the wall, the humming refrigerator, the groaning heater. His question hangs in the air like a noose.

Of course he knows about the story. There’s no one better to write it, no one who knows what you know. He told you so the last time he was here, naked form crowding your queen-sized bed.

You shake your head, no true desire to go there because that’s not what he needs. It’s not the real reason he’s here. “Let’s not talk about that right now.”

“What did you write? About me?” Andy doesn’t blink, only swallows some invisible lumps in his throat. “About Jacob?”

You know what he’s asking you. Not directly, but it’s there. It’s always been there, hovering between the lines, in the back of his voice.

_What have you said about Jacob?_

_What have you written about me?_

_Do you agree with Laurie?_

_Do you think I’m a terrible father?_

_Do you think Jacob’s innocent?_

You gave him as neutral an answer as you could. “It doesn’t matter what I’ve written.” Andy snorts, turning away just for a second but only for a second. To pacify him, you say, “You know what I think, though.”

He stares at you, forlorn, and the look pushes at that soft spot in your chest again, the one he’s always had since the beginning, before.

You swallow and his eyes zero in on your throat. “Do you…do you want something to drink?”

He shakes his head, gaze set on you.

This is how he came to you the first time, breath smelling like a liquor cabinet, expression defeated. He just needed someone to talk to, someone to listen, understand. Distract him.

“Andy, I don’t think this is a good idea,” you breathed, mouth tingling with the nip of his drunken kiss.

“Just this once. It won’t happen again, I promise,” he begged, calloused hands cradling your face. “I promise, just this once. Please.”

“Andy-“

“Distract me,” he begs. _“Please.”_

You like to think you fought a good fight with your conscience that night, but you didn’t. He’d punched a hole right through that soft spot in your chest, the pleading look in his eyes wrapping around you like a rope. Beneath it all, he was still the Andy you knew, somewhere in there. Underneath that whiskey breath and wrinkled suit. The Andy you’d always admired. The Andy you’d always secretly desired.

“Okay,” you whispered, conscience in disbelief, body longing.

Before you knew what was happening you were straddling him, his mouth on yours, his hands squeezing the life out of your waist as he took you vigorously in the backseat of your car. He left you heaving, pussy raw and throbbing from the rough drive of his cock.

It happened more frequently after that - in your car in the parking lot at work, your bedroom, your couch, on the stable surfaces in your house. Whatever it was, you gave in, your own inner demons scrambling for a source of comfort, an invitation you’d always selfishly wanted since the first time you met.

“What do you want, Andy?”

You watch the Adam’s apple in his throat bob as he swallows. How simple the answer is to your question, how you already know it.

“You,” he croaks.

One moment he’s standing across from you and in the next, he’s shoving you against the wall, thick frame like a weight in your arms as he crashes his lips onto yours. He doesn’t taste like this whiskey this time, just a man ridden with sadness, with anger and disappointment, self-ridicule. He’s merely a ghost, a flicker of someone else, someone from before.

The clash of his tongue feels good and familiar even though it shouldn’t, and you enjoy it for the split second his mouth pulls at yours before he shoves you away and latches his teeth onto your throat.

He breathes deeply, hands biting at your waist, eager to feel you because he wants to feel _something,_ wants that plethora of emotions he gets when he’s with you, something Laurie no longer gives him, not since she left.

“Please, baby,” he hums, breath warm against your neck. “Distract me. Please.”

Your hands grasp his hoodie, pushing it off his shoulders and he reaches for you. Effortlessly, he picks you up and carries you to the dining room, plants you on the table and goes to work, desperate hands yanking your sweater off your shoulders. 

So much familiarity in the scratch of his beard, the roughness of his fingers pushing at the fabric of your dress, needy hands pulling your underwear down your thighs until your bare bottom connects with the wooden surface of your dining room table.

Andy’s fingers find your wet, heated core, exhale deep and loud. “Always so perfect.”

A whimper leaves your lips when his touch finds home. He leans on the table, one hand braced for support as he explores you, familiar with the terrain of that paradise between your legs, nimble fingers drawing you past the edge quickly because he’s done this so many times now and he knows your body like a good lawyer knows his case.

He doesn’t waste time in freeing himself, pushing his jeans to the floor while you lean on trembling arms, bones shaking with arousal. He captures your mouth in a rough kiss, sucking on your tongue as he tugs you to the edge of the table, your entrance exposed and ready.

The sound of heavy breathing fills the room, Andy breaching you and bottoming out after a quick, wild thrust. You keen, toes curling in your shoes when he cups your thighs in the crook of his arm and spreads you wider, hips pushing into yours steadily, forcefully.

It’s rough and fast, the messiness of slick, connected body parts and a filthy, merciless pace. His strokes are deep, so powerful you find yourself clutching his shirt and the edge of table, moans like siren calls filling his ear as he fucks you avidly, fighting to find his way to the end.

“So _perfect_ ,” he grunts, hips colliding into yours.

His pace doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter for a second, not even as you hang on for dear life, hips close slipping off the table. This is familiar, and he takes you easily because he’s fucked you like this before, body open and vulnerable and needy. The deep strokes of his cock leave your inner muscles on fire, pussy clenching, body so used to the drag of his length that he pulls you along effortlessly.

You glance up at him, brown eyes staring into pools of dark blue and every nerve in you tingles, pleasure curling deep in your lower back and hips.

He fucks you with determination, thumb pressing against the wetness of your clit, bringing you to another climax, one that wrings your bones like a wet rag. Andy follows you not to long later, melting into moaning mess of trembling limbs and biting fingers, come shooting out to fill you in way that makes you tremble.

You’re still clinging to his shirt and the table when he asks, in uneven breaths, “You alright?”

You nod, nerves still tingling in tiny aftershocks.

In an expression of sweetness, he kisses your forehead, peppers your cheek with little pecks. “Can I stay the night?”

It’s a question he already knows the answer to. One he’s asked you before and you’ve always given in. If he doesn’t stay here, he doesn’t sleep. The house is too quiet, too gloomy, ridden with dark memories and voices like the ones inside his head.

He needs the peace and quiet that comes with being with you. Needs the distraction.

You nod, letting go of his shirt to run your hand soothingly along his chest. “Okay.”


End file.
